


another night you've gotta take my call

by ameneurosis



Series: texts from last night: spideypool fics [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Texts From Last Night, blanket burritos and beer brawls, i don't think there's a universe in which wade isn't a trouble maker, this can either be seen as established relationship or cutesy platonic, underage drinking bc peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameneurosis/pseuds/ameneurosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"(617) Right, try not to commit a felony that costs more than 4 dollars, 'cause that's all I have in my bail jar."</p>
            </blockquote>





	another night you've gotta take my call

**Author's Note:**

> (i'm still in high school & i've never been arrested so SRRY FOR GLARING INACCURACIES, google can only help so much, y'know.)  
> also, what are canonical timelines? i've never heard of em'. (no but i figure wade is like 21 and peter is like.. 19? almost 20? i have no idea these numbers r pretty arbitrary)  
> (title is from all time low's 'bail me out.' figured it was appropriate.)

Peter trudged back to his apartment, the backpack hanging off his shoulders — a metaphor for the weight he’s been carrying all throughout final’s week — barely registering as an actual thing that existed. The only thing that encouraged him to keep putting one foot in front of the other was the promise of the soft, warm, comfortable cocoon that he was going to build out of his bed the moment he stepped in the door. _Maybe I can convince Wade to make food_. He’d been too nervous to eat breakfast, but he’d scarfed down an oatmeal bar at the first available moment, which was still hours ago. Ugh.

Despite all the panic, he’s sure that he _at least_ got a C in his most difficult class, and that was cause for celebration: a weekend full of nothing but binge-watching Netflix, binge-eating cheap takeout, and plowing through whatever interesting game he finds on sale, with coma-esque naps in between. The plan gave him enough fuel to march up the last few steps of their stairs and throw open the door, his backpack hitting the tile with a muffled thud and his body _fwump_ -ing down on their couch seconds later, face first, of course.

Through the sound of his own suffering and the slightly noise-blocking cushions, he could hear Wade clamoring around in their kitchen, the fridge opening and closing, along with the — _honestly, unnecessarily loud, how does he manage to make such a racket while cooking_ — clinking of pans, spatulas, and the like. The familiar background symphony has him dozing off, and he’s startled awake when a plate is slammed down onto the table, less than a foot away from his face. Peter has half a second to be grumpy before the smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes surrounds him, and the complaints on his tongue dissolve into a pleased groan. Wade ungracefully falls into the seat beside him, bumping into his side as a greeting before he’s shoveling his own food into his mouth.

“I love you,” he says gratefully, rapidly eating like it’s gonna disappear if he blinks.

Wade scoffs between bites. “Obviously.” He takes a long swig of his coke, handing the can off to Peter, and when he looks up to give it back, the older man has a small, dangerous smirk on his face.

Peter stills, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What are you scheming?”

Wade looks away, eyes going wide in faux innocence. “Why, nothing. I’m offended! Can’t a man just be happy? I mean, finals are over! I probably flunked most of ‘em, but, that’s not the point. They’re done, Petey! And now I’m eating some delicious chow, spending some time with the love of my life, my BFFL, my partner in _law-abiding citizenship_ , certainly not crime—”

“Seriously, you’re scaring me. I’m genuinely frightened. What did you do? What are you _going_ to do?” When Wade’s only response is a guaff, he sets his plate down and grabs one of his arms, shaking him slightly. “ _Wade Winston Wilson_ , what the hell are you up to?”

His poor attempt at a stern, authoritative voice makes his friend have another fit, deep laughs turning into breathless giggles by the time he calms himself down. “You should’ve seen your face—!” He takes a huge, deep breath. “No, okay, I’m good.”

“That’s debatable,” Peter mumbles, stealing another drink of soda. He’s worried that the snarky remark might set Wade off again, but — thankfully? — it just earns him another grin.

“It’s nothing to be worried about, shnookums. I was just gonna ask if you wanted to go to a ‘we-survived’ shindig tonight. No need to so rudely assume the worst.”

Peter blanches. “ _No need?_ You remember the last time you dragged me to a party, right?”

“Uh.. vaguely?”

“Fine. Remember the morning _after_ the last time you dragged me to a party?”

Wade actually cringes. “Yeah, okay, point. But you’re a scientist! You’ve gotta know that one time’s not, like, conclusive data or whatever!”

“Wade, I couldn’t get the glitter out of my hair for months. Something in your closet _still_ smells like vodquila, tabasco, and marshmallow fluff.”

“That was delicious and you loved it, shut up.” Before Peter can start back up, he shushes him, continuing. “C’mon! Nothing’s gonna get out of hand, pinky swear.” He holds out the aforementioned contractually binding finger, and Peter regards it as if it were a snake about to bite him, glancing warily between Wade’s outstretched hand and his face.

“No drunken fights? No felonies? No impromptu 2000’s Top 40 karaoke sessions?”

Wade pouts. “Well, you’re no fun.”

Peter looks pointedly at the mason jar that sits on the only shelf they own. “There’s only $4 left in the bail jar after your last stunt, I have a pack of gum and a few packages of instant noodles to my name. You get your ass arrested, you’re spending the night in NYPD’s finest accommodations, ‘cause I can’t bail you out.”

“Alright, I hear ya, no crimes more expensive than a latte, stop naggin’. We got a deal or what?” He wiggles his would-be eyebrows, waggling his pinkie finger in sync, and Peter sighs, linking it with his own. _Hypothesis: subject is going to regret this decision_.

* * *

 

“What is that, your fourth shot?” Peter yells over the music, gesturing to the small glass in Wade’s lightly swaying hand.

He makes an indignant sound that Peter just barely catches. “Third, thank you very much! I’m hardly buzzin’, baby boy, lighten up!”

“We’ve only been here for half an hour!” In his defense, the volume of everything is grating on his nerves, and the half-empty bottle of beer in his hands hasn’t helped loosen up his tense muscles in the slightest. But he’s trying to have a good time, for Wade’s sake. Sure, he could be trying a bit harder, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Similarly, Wade’s actually been trying. To improve his academic life, specifically. He’d told Peter, back when their friendship was relatively fresh and they’d just moved in together, that when he’d decided to go to college, it was only to get away from his shitbag of a father and figure some stuff out on his own, if only for a semester or two. “ _It was either this or the military._ ” That had been nearly two years ago, and even though he still didn’t know what he was majoring in and was rather unconcerned about his future, he was making more of an effort than when Peter had first met him, and he was proud.

It’s this pride that keeps him from being a total buzzkill when Wade invites him to “come dance, it’ll be fun, shake that booty! I bet our next Pizza Hut order that you could twerk if you tried,” dragging him into the mass of moving bodies, situating himself behind Peter, arms wrapped around his waist and breath tickling his neck as he talks over his shoulder, directly into his ear to make communication easier, subsequently making him squirm away, laughing. They stay like this for a few songs before Wade runs off to grab him a multi-colored drink that tastes pleasantly fruity and himself a beer.

They dance for a while, but eventually Peter’s four drinks in, his solo cup got lost.. somewhere, and he’s thirsty. He says this, — whines, really — and Wade guides them to the small kitchen of the house, grabbing him a water bottle and maneuvering his loose limbs into a dining table chair. The drink’s room temperature, but the moment it hits his tongue he realizes how _really_ thirsty he is, and couldn’t care less.

Admittedly, he can’t exactly pinpoint where things went wrong. One second, his eyes are drifting shut as Wade plays with his hair, making small talk with another guy that’s rooting around in the fridge, and the next, there are three more people in the cramped space, and there’s a lot of shouting. He blinks again, and suddenly punches have been thrown and he’s being pushed out into the living room, Wade’s hands on his back as he walks them around until he stops. He kind of recognizes the girl in front of him, thinks she might live in their apartment complex — cheap housing near campus is hard to find, it’s not weird that several students live there — but he doesn’t think he’s ever learned her name.

Wade shakes his shoulder, lightly, and calls his name in a tone that suggests that it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

“Hmm?”

“Stella’s gonna give you a ride, okay?” He tilts his head to the familiar stranger, and Peter’s brow furrows.

“Where‘re you going?”

Wade laughs, but it doesn’t sound very happy. “I’ll call you bright n’ early, babe, don’t worry about it.” He’s got so many more questions, but he’s being ushered out of the house — he’s kind of getting sick of being _pushed_ everywhere — and as they drive away, streetlights and trees blurring in his vision, he thinks he can hear muted sirens behind them.

For the second time that day, he stumbles into his home and flops straight down on the couch, absolutely exhausted. _Conclusion: subject does, indeed, regret his previous decision._ He glares at the two plates still sitting on their table until he passes out.

* * *

 

Peter’s not necessarily a morning person. He’d taken two early classes his first quarter, and that taught him more about regret than anything else he’s experienced thus far. He’s not fully functional until he’s had two strong cups of coffee, _minimum_ , and even then he’s still “Grouchy McGrumpypants,” as Wade likes to call him, until half past noon.

Which is why, when his phone starts screaming Wade’s personalized ringtone a little after six, it’s only expected that he answers the phone with a growled, monotone “ _what._ ”

“Me _ow_ , kitten. Retract the claws, I said I’d call.” The man on the other end of the line sounds downright cheery, and he’s rudely reminded that, oddly enough, Wade actually _enjoys_ mornings. ( _When he drinks, he doesn’t even get hangovers. “Guess I just heal faster than you, Petey.” Asshole._ )

Peter lets out a noise that’s some kind of combination of a groan and a sigh, sitting up and stretching out the kinks in his neck. “Wanna tell me what happened last night?”

“You didn’t have _that_ much to drink, did you? I didn’t think you were the blackout drunk kinda guy.”

He snarls, even though it’s too early to put any real heat into it. “I remember everything, until shit went from 0 to 100 in less than two seconds and I was being carted away by someone I don’t know. You didn’t even tell me anything, just, ‘relax, I’ll call you later.’ Care to enlighten me?”

“I’ll have you know that Stella and her girlfriend have borrowed sugar from us, like, six times. Once they even gave us some of the cookies they’d made with it!” Peter huffs, doesn’t say anything, lets him get back on topic himself. “Fine, fine. Some drunk dudebros did some shit, I’m an impulsive ball of rage, I may have broken a nose, y’know, the youzhe.”

“ _Wade_.”

“It’s not a big deal, nobody could prove anything! I just got brought in on being a bit too drunk, sobered up in the tank. Everything’s fine!”

“Except for the guy with the broken nose!?” Peter’s almost yelling now, fingers of his free hand massaging one of his temples, trying to fight off the impending headache of doom.

“Eh, douchenozzle deserved it.” Before Peter could really ask _why_ , he barrels on, “so, can you come get me? I didn’t bring my wallet with me last night, don’t have my metrocard.”

He makes yet another inhuman, displeased noise. “No. Catch a cab. I’ll bring cash out when you get here.”

Wade actually has the gall to petulantly whine. “Gonna make me trek home, all by my lonesome?”

Peter snorts. “Consider it a time-out. It’ll give you some time to.. I dunno, consider the consequences of your actions, or something. I’m making coffee, and, if you’re lucky, there’ll be some left for you.” With that, he hangs up. It’s only about a half an hour drive from that part of the city, but he figures he has some time to jump in the shower. He’s all sweaty, still wearing his clothes from the day prior — that he danced in, around a bunch of other sweaty people, ew — and it tastes like something crawled onto his tongue and died.

He doesn’t take more than ten minutes washing up, but it feels like he’s been cleansed in a holy river, and it’s like he’s ten times more human than he was when he woke up. He checks his phone to find that Wade sent him a frowny face about a minute after he hung up on him, and he’s pouring coffee grounds into a filter when he texts him again.

‘ **peter parker, come on doowwwn! srsly, cabby’s gonna stab me any minute, im being that annoying. i thnk he thnks im lying abt paying. r00d.** ’

He just sends him back a ‘ **K** ’, because

a) he doesn’t need to say anything else, he’ll talk to him face-to-face in less than sixty seconds, and

b) he knows that the singular lettered response annoys the shit out of Wade, so, bonus.

Sliding on his slippers, he runs outside, spots the yellow car, pays the nice man, and all but drags Wade up by his ear. They don’t say anything until their front door not-so-gently closes, and Peter’s letting go of the hold he had on Wade’s hand to cross his arms, putting on his best “dissapointed” face.

He sighs, slumping his shoulders and hiding his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking down at the cracked tile of their kitchen floor, and it’s like watching someone de-age 15 years. It’s no less disconcerting than the first time he saw it happen; Wade, this exuberant, fiery ball of energy suddenly looking as young, vulnerable and scared as he really is underneath the constant fake-it-’til-you-make-it attitude.

“‘m sorry. It’s just— you didn’t hear it, y’know? It was awful ‘n I.. couldn’t? I—”

“Wade,” Peter cuts him off, stepping out of the pose he’d taken and walking over to his friend, wrapping his arms around his neck, burying his face in his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You say they deserved it, I believe you.” The man underneath him tenses for a long minute before taking his hands out of his pockets and wrapping them around Peter, properly hugging him back, relief bleeding into him.

They couldn’t have been standing there for more than 15, maybe 20 seconds before Wade gets restless, hands twitching, and Peter pulls away, smiling at him.

“Before you plan on doing any more potentially dumb things, I request that you restock the bail jar.” The smile morphs into a smirk, and he walks past him to finish setting up the coffee maker. “You should really shower, by the way. A night in a cell with a bunch of other inebriated people doesn’t seem to be the best cologne choice.”

The playful taunt does what it was meant to, breaking the little tension left in the room, bringing back the light ambience that’s normally present in their home. “Nah, I really think this works for me. I’m gonna name it _eau de drunkard_. Gonna be flying off the shelves, I tell ya. I’ll be rich!”

Peter snorts, turning around to get to the fridge, shoving Wade towards the bathroom on his way. “Lemme know how that works out.”

By the time his roommate comes out of the shower, he’s got pancakes being kept warm in the oven, his own plate already scarfed down sitting in front of him, and the duvet off his bed has been wrapped around himself, making him a worm of blanket with a face poking out the top. He took the liberty of setting Wade’s blanket down next to him, and, when he walks out into the living room, he closes out of the video game he’d been playing, looking between Wade, the blanket, and back again until he gets the hint and joins him in the blanket cocoon club.

Once they’re all settled, he puts on a show that they’d both been meaning to start watching, leaning into Wade’s side.

He breaks the silence before the intro credits finish. “I feel like I understand caterpillars now.”

Peter nods, satisfied. “That’s how you know it’s working.”

**Author's Note:**

> p.s sorry for the lazy writing when it comes to wade never really sayin what happened w the dudebros. it's, uh. an exercise in ~~imagination~~. sure.  
> also srry for taking the tfln as a sentence prompt and running away with it, screaming. #StopAmeneurosis2k16  
> if u liked it drop a kudos/comment :~) ilu.


End file.
